


It's Going Down (I'm Yelling Timber)

by angelsaves



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Consensual Infidelity, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prom, Prom Queen, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is crushing on Aramis, who's crushing on Anne, who's running the prom committee. Somehow, Porthos manages to get the prom night he didn't know he was dreaming about. (High school AU. PWP.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Going Down (I'm Yelling Timber)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarin/gifts).



> Title from "Timber" by Pitbull and Ke$ha, which would be appropriate to have stuck in your head throughout this fic, I think.

Porthos is a pretty great guy, if he does say so himself. Which he does, every day in the mirror when he's getting ready for school. It's good for his self-esteem. Anyway, he knows he's pretty great. So why is his best friend spending so much time with somebody who isn't him?

"Because they're the heads of the prom committee, Porthos," says Athos. He punctuates this by letting out a prodigious burp and throwing his empty beer at the trash can they've conveniently dragged to the edge of the roof. He misses.

Porthos gets up to put the can in the trash. "Your aim is garbage, and so is your logic," he informs him. "If Aramis wanted to blow off prom committee stuff, he could, and then he could be up here, with me." Athos raises his eyebrows. "With _us_ ," he amends quickly.

"Yes, well," says Athos. "Alternatively, we could join the prom committee. D'Artagnan did."

Porthos takes a long drink of his beer. It's warm. He grimaces. "D'Artagnan joined the prom committee so he'd have an excuse to spend time with Constance."

"Right," says Athos. "And you want to spend more time with Aramis." He pops open another can and swigs from it.

"You make it sound so sordid," Porthos protests.

"No, _you_ make it sound sordid." Athos takes a long drink. "Because you want to fuck him."

"I do not!"

"Fine -- because you want him to fuck you. I don't particularly care."

"You care," Porthos says, and gives him a noogie to remind him of why. "You care so much. We're like the brothers you never had."

"I meant I don't care whose dick goes where, thank you," Athos says, shoving at him ineffectually.

"As long as we're clear." Porthos settles back into a comfortable position. "Anyway, I don't necessarily want Aramis to fuck me. I just miss him, is all."

Athos snorts. "Fine. You want to braid flowers into each other's hair, or whatever, and it has nothing to do with being really gay for each other at all."

"Bi, not gay," Porthos says. Then he snaps his mouth shut. He may have said too much.

"My mistake," Athos says, and finishes his beer.

***

That night, Aramis Facebook-chats Porthos and tells him he should join the prom committee, because they're short-handed and there's less than a week to go. Because he's such a good friend, Porthos agrees, then immediately signs off before he can say anything embarrassing.

The thing is, he knows exactly what Aramis is doing with Anne when Louis's back is turned. He's seen it a dozen times: the long glances, the warm smiles, the casual touches Aramis turns on the object of his affections. It's irresistible, even to the ones who don't know Aramis very well. Porthos knows him better than anybody, though, and that just makes it harder to resist.

He already knows what Aramis's hands feel like on his skin, for one thing. They've gotten into their share of scrapes -- more than their fair share, if he's strictly honest with himself -- and several of them have ended up with Aramis playing nurse so Porthos wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone. His hands are deft, and they feel good when they're not prodding fresh bruises. Sometimes -- if he's going with this strict honesty business -- even when they are.

Porthos groans and rolls over onto his back. He'd like to feel Aramis's hands on him right now, but he's going to have to make do with his own. He fists his cock, eyes falling shut, and thinks about what it would be like -- how Aramis would just know, with that weird kind of sex telepathy he has going on, what would make him feel good. He'd tease him just the right amount, until he was right on the edge, and then start in on his ass...

This part of the fantasy needs a little more prep. Porthos rolls over again, almost off the bed, and pulls a shoebox out from under it. That's where he stashes the lube. He pours it out generously, some to slick up his cock, the rest on his fingers. Aramis would be generous with the lube, too, being the consummate gentleman.

Porthos slips one finger inside and lets himself stretch around it, slowly, patiently. He doesn't get to do this as often as he'd like to, but there's just something inside of him that wants to be taken apart, piece by piece, and then put back together. And part of that part -- this is getting complicated -- really wants Aramis to be the one doing the taking apart. God, he wants it.

Another finger next to the first one, and then he spreads them, just a little, to feel the stretch. Aramis would probably be more patient than that, but -- fuck -- Aramis isn't here right now, is he. Self-control is a virtue, but not one Porthos has much of.

He jerks his cock faster now with his free hand, two fingers buried in his ass, and lets himself pretend it's his best friend doing it. God, it's good, it's good -- and Porthos comes all over his hand.

***

"Prom committee meeting after school," Aramis reminds him when they get to last period French, nudging Porthos's knee with his own.

"I know," Porthos says gruffly. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to decorate the gym," Aramis says, gesturing expansively, like he's announced they're going to decorate the Eiffel Tower or something. "With crepe paper, and a disco ball, and I don't know, Anne's in charge of the part that requires taste."

"Good." Porthos grins at him.

"I," Aramis continues, "am in charge of acquiring people who aren't afraid of heights. That's where you come in."

"And this is where I come in," says Mr. Treville. "Remember me, your French teacher?"

"You do ring a bell," Porthos says. He pulls out a pencil and his notebook. "You're the one with all the wisdom, right?"

"And you're the one with all the flattery. Now, if we could turn our attention to the subjunctive..."

***

After class, Aramis links arms with Porthos and half drags him to the gym.

"I know how to get to the gym," Porthos growls, but he doesn't pull away, because, well, he doesn't.

"I'm just making sure," Aramis says. His smile is brilliant, and he doesn't let go of Porthos's arm.

In the gym, they find Anne and the group of girls who seem to follow her everywhere, as well as Constance and D'Artagnan. They're examining what seems to be approximately a metric fuckton of crepe paper, and, as Aramis had said (though Porthos had assumed it was a joke) an actual disco ball. And --

"A cherrypicker?" Porthos says. "Isn't that a bit excessive?"

"Not for what I have planned," Anne says. "You and Aramis will come up in it with me, of course, since you're the tallest."

"Of course," Aramis agrees, and he helps Anne into the cherrypicker graciously. Porthos follows them, even though he's not sure why being tall matters when they're _in a cherrypicker_ , and up they go, carrying the disco ball and a selection of crepe paper.

From this close to the roof, the rest of the prom committee looks like dolls as they sort decorations. Porthos leans over the edge, watching, and Anne gasps behind him.

"Porthos, be careful!" she says.

"He'll be fine," Aramis reassures her, but he slips two fingers through Porthos's back belt loop anyway, to hold onto him. Porthos is very glad neither of them can see his face.

"Right there," Anne says. Porthos turns around, and she's pointing to what he's pretty sure is the exact center of the ceiling.

"You're sure?" Aramis asks, starting to feed out the chain to fasten it around the beam.

"I calculated it," Anne says, coolly. Porthos is impressed in spite of himself.

"Good work," Aramis says. "Porthos, give me a hand?"

Together, they get the disco ball attached, then slowly lower it down until it's hanging exactly where Anne wants it. "Now, the crepe paper," Anne says. "Stick the ends to the beam -- Porthos, can you reach?"

"Sure," he says, and does. "Now what?"

"Now, the fun part," says Anne, and laughs. She takes one of the blue rolls from him, calls, "Look out below!", and throws it over the edge. It unspools as it falls, which he has to admit looks pretty cool. "We do that in different directions, like a Maypole," she says.

"Me next," Aramis says, snatching a green roll. "Timber!"

Not to be outdone, Porthos yells "Fore!" and pitches a purple one, making Anne laugh again.

They keep going until they've thrown all the crepe paper. "That was fun," Anne says, "wasn't it?"

Aramis looks at him. "It really was," Porthos says as they descend.

While they were up in the air, Anne's boyfriend apparently showed up; as soon as Aramis has helped Anne out of the cherrypicker, Louis takes her by the arm and starts chattering. Porthos doesn't listen. He can't stand Louis, even if he is the class president and front-runner for prom king. He turns away.

"We have business over there," Aramis says vaguely, and Anne nods at him over her shoulder. He and Porthos quickly get the hell out of the gym and escape to the comfort of the roof.

"I hate Louis," Aramis says, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the sky.

"Be careful," Porthos says, and opens him a beer from their stash.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Aramis takes a drink.

"You're usually more... circumspect than this. Anne has a boyfriend." _And I don't,_ Porthos doesn't say.

Aramis glances over at him, almost like he's heard. "Anne can take care of herself."

"I'm sure she can," Porthos says. "And I'm sure Louis thinks _he_ can, too."

" _Thinks_ he can," Aramis agrees. "We could take him."

"Of course we could," Porthos says, without hesitation.

"Who are you taking to prom?" Aramis asks abruptly.

"Nobody," Porthos says. "You?"

"We should go as a group," Aramis says. "You, me, Athos, D'Artagnan. A last hurrah, before the three of us graduate."

"You're only saying that because you can't take Anne," Porthos says.

Aramis slugs him companionably in the arm. "You're nobody's second choice," he says.

"We should," Porthos says. "It'll be fun. Or something."

"That's my boy!"

***

The week goes by fast. They take Athos's dad's big black SUV to prom, because it's big enough for the four of them, and they don't really care that it's not a limo -- not like they're bothering with pictures or anything.

Athos parks outside the gym, and Porthos gets out of the back, straightening his rented tux. Just before they reach the big double doors, D'Artagnan stops and holds out his fist. "All for one?" he says hesitantly.

"And one for all," Porthos, Athos, and Aramis reply, knocking their fists against his. He's a good guy, especially for a new kid. Well, not that new anymore. Still.

Inside, the gym looks better than Porthos thought it would -- like the bottom of the ocean, with light bouncing off the disco ball and filtering through the strands of crepe paper. The guys all look dapper, and the girls look beautiful. It makes Porthos feel sort of warm and gooey inside.

He dances with a few different girls: Ninon, who's going to Sarah Lawrence in the fall; Constance, to keep her boyfriend off D'Artagnan's scent; Alice, from French class; and then he turns around and finds Anne in his arms. Her dress is blue and shimmery, and she looks like a mermaid, the prom queen tiara set on top of her flowing hair..

"Hi," Anne says, wrapping her arms around his neck to the strains of Pitbull and Ke$ha.

"Uh," Porthos says, momentarily thrown for a loop. "Hi."

"Are you having fun?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, then adds, "More than I thought I would."

"Good." She smiles. She's a good dancer; it's easy to match her rhythm. It's also easy to think about whether that rhythm might translate to other areas -- too easy.

"Where's Louis?" Porthos asks, to distract himself.

Anne wrinkles her pretty nose. "Sick," she says. "Anyway, we're -- it's complicated."

"Staying together for the kids, eh?" Porthos says wryly.

"The parents, more like," Anne says. "We're breaking up the second we leave for college, officially."

"I know someone who'll be happy to hear that," Porthos says without thinking, then bites his tongue.

Anne only laughs. "Aramis already knows," she says. "And Louis knows that Aramis knows."

"Oh," Porthos says. "I -- see." That's interesting, all right.

She tweaks his nose. "Don't feel left out," she says. "I don't want that."

What? Before Porthos can formulate a response to that, Aramis comes up. "May I cut in?" he asks.

"Fine with me," Porthos says. "Thanks for the dance, Anne."

He heads off to the punch table. Nobody's spiked it yet, probably because Mr. Treville is standing by with a ready glare. Porthos salutes him and ladles himself a cup. Anne and Aramis are dancing close, and she's whispering in his ear.

Porthos drinks his punch. This is getting silly. He can't be jealous of both of them at once, can he?

... _Can_ he?

A few more songs play, and Porthos dances some of them, but Aramis and Anne keep dancing through his mind. It's ridiculous. At first he thinks he's imagining them dancing right up to him, but then Aramis leans in and whispers in his ear. "Let's get out of here."

Porthos tries to play it cool. "Uh. What?"

"Let's get out of here," Aramis repeats.

"Athos, D'Artagnan," Porthos says.

"Busy," Aramis says, gesturing. Athos is dancing with Ninon, and D'Artagnan and Constance appear deep in conversation over punch.

"Then how --?"

"My car," says Anne. She takes his hand. "Come on."

Porthos can't resist; he doesn't want to resist. He follows them out of the watery gym, out to where Anne's little white sports car is parked, and climbs into the back seat.

"Where are we going?" he asks, finally, when the school is in the rearview mirror.

"My parents are out of town," Anne says. She has her right arm along the back of Aramis's seat, and when she says that, Aramis bends his head and presses a kiss to the inside of her elbow. It's intimate, which would ordinarily make Porthos feel awkward, but Anne catches his eye in the mirror and smiles, and he feels included instead. It's a good feeling.

***

Anne's house is big -- that's all the impression Porthos gets, because he barely has time to toe off his dress shoes by the front door before she's pulling them up the stairs to her bedroom.

"I want to be clear about this," she says, closing the door behind the three of them. "I want to have sex with you. Both of you."

Porthos is floored. "Good," says Aramis, sweeping her into a kiss; Porthos watches his eyelashes on his cheekbones, Anne's pretty mouth opening like a flower. Then she pushes him away.

"Now you," she directs, gesturing like she wants to push them into each other's arms.

Porthos glances at Aramis and says, "You heard the lady." Aramis grins and steps into his space, then pulls Porthos's head down. Their lips meet. Porthos thinks for a moment that he hears a choir of angels when Aramis licks into his mouth -- but no, that's Anne, watching them and moaning. God in his heaven.

He melts into the kiss for a moment longer, but when Aramis grabs his ass, he's too aware of the layers of cloth involved. "Clothes," he manages to say. "Less of them."

"Someone unzip me," Anne says, and turns her back. Aramis gets there first, but Porthos isn't complaining about the visual. The blue shimmery stuff parts under Aramis's hands, slips down, and puddles at her feet, and God, there's nothing but Anne underneath, like an ivory statue come to life. "Well?" she says, and Porthos hurries to get out of his layers of tuxedo.

Anne watches them undress with frank interest, her pink nipples tightening in the cool air. Porthos beats Aramis and joins her in watching. "Not much like the locker room," he says.

"Maybe not the _boys'_ locker room," Anne says, making him snort. 

"I'll bet the girls rate each other out of ten," he says.

She looks at him from under her lashes. "And how would you rate Aramis?"

Porthos opens his mouth, then shuts it. Aramis strikes a come-hither pose, and he knows there's a joke to be made, but he can't find it.

"More to the point," Anne goes on lightly, "would you like him to fuck you? While you go down on me, maybe?"

"Yes," Porthos manages to say, and Anne beams.

"Really?" Aramis asks, looking at Porthos like he's never seen him before. 

Porthos grabs him and kisses him. Without clothes on, he's pretty sure it's clear just how much he means it. He _really_ means it.

"My turn," says Anne, and she slips in between them. Porthos kisses her mouth while Aramis kisses her neck, and she wriggles happily against them. He's pretty sure that one of the hands on his ass is Anne's, and the other is Aramis's.

"This is the best prom night ever," he mumbles against Anne's mouth, and she laughs.

"Good," she says. "I hope it only gets better."

Aramis's grip on his ass cheek is getting more insistent -- possessive, even, maybe. "How do we do this, Anne?" he asks.

"How do you usually do it?" Anne asks, twisting to look at him over her shoulder. Aramis gapes. "Oh," she says, sounding surprised. "You don't?"

"We haven't," Aramis says. "Not that I haven't thought about it --"

"You have?" Porthos blurts out. "I thought it was just me."

"Not just you," Aramis says, and leans in to kiss him over Anne's shoulder.

"Oh, good," Anne says, mouth close to Porthos's ear. "I was afraid this was going to be awkward."

Porthos laughs. "Give it time," he says.

"Aramis, how do you want him, then?" Anne asks, ignoring Porthos's comment. "On his back or on all fours?"

Porthos almost swallows his tongue. He's imagined it both of those ways, among others.

"Hmm," Aramis says, drawing it out as he continues to grope Porthos. "On all fours, I think. Anne, how much porn do you watch?"

"Exactly the right amount," she says. "Aramis, the condoms and lube are in the top drawer."

"I suppose that's my cue," Aramis says. Porthos can't help making a small, sad noise when he lets go, which makes Anne laugh.

"He'll be back," she says, "don't worry."

"But until then, I have plans for you," Porthos says. He scoops her up and deposits her on the bed, a four-poster the size of a swimming pool.

"That's just what I wanted to hear," Anne says, leaning back in the pillows. Her prom queen tiara is still tucked into her hair, though it's fallen askew, and she looks like some kind of X-rated goddess with her hair everywhere and her legs parted.

"Well?" she says. "I hope you didn't just mean looking."

Porthos grins. "Oh, no," he says, and climbs onto the bed with her, propping himself on his elbows. "I have better plans than that."

He starts off gently, kissing the insides of her thighs and the top of her cunt, letting her get used to the scrape of his beard. Anne starts to move against his face, and behind him, Aramis groans.

"Don't stop," Anne says, rolling her hips up, and Porthos licks into her where she's slick and hot.

"God, you look good doing that," Aramis says.

Porthos grins and licks deeper, flicking his tongue over Anne's clit so she moans.

"Don't leave him hanging," Anne says breathlessly. "I want to see if he gets better when he's getting fucked."

Aramis takes Porthos's hip in one hand and slowly circles his hole with one finger of the other. Porthos makes a choked-off noise, and Anne squirms under his mouth.

"Does he?" Aramis asks, slipping the finger inside.

"Nnngh," says Porthos into Anne's folds, and she gasps and laughs.

"We'll see," she says.

So Porthos does his very best to keep driving Anne crazy, while Aramis does the same to him -- first with his fingers, then, when Porthos finally pulls his face away from Anne long enough to beg, with his cock. To make it up to her, he shifts his weight to one side and rubs her clit in fast little circles with the pad of his thumb while he fucks her with his tongue, and the noises she makes are incredible.

"Oh, God, oh --" Anne cries out, grinding her cunt up into his face as she comes. "Yes, yes, he does, oh, God, Aramis, Porthos --" She pulls back away from him and sits up to lean over him, and Porthos hears the slippery sounds of her kissing Aramis. 

Aramis's hips stutter forward, setting off sparks inside Porthos. "Please --" he gets out, and Aramis reaches unerringly for his cock, jerking it once, twice, and then --

Porthos wakes up to feel someone tracing slow circles on his back, and someone else doing the same on his stomach. "I know the stereotype of men falling asleep after sex, but you barely waited until you were done," Anne says over his shoulder, a laugh in her voice.

"Sorry about that," he says, and opens his eyes to meet Aramis's.

"No complaints here," Aramis says.

"Nor here," Anne says. "That was a night I won't forget -- almost enough to make me regret going to college on the other side of the country."

"Well, there's always the summer," Porthos says.


End file.
